


He Stayed at Home

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Dr. Watson's diaries, Established Relationship, Fluff, Holmes is the worrying husband this time for a change, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, set in 1903
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 08:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15815328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: Why Dr. Watson couldn’t accompany Sherlock Holmes during an investigation of the case later known as ‘The Blanched Soldier’.





	He Stayed at Home

**Author's Note:**

> Great thanks to my beta [falsepremise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsepremise)!
> 
> I rather like [Sir Ian McKellen’s headcanon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bGDXnr8YXZg) that Holmes and Watson, being as close as they were, actually called each other by their first names. So they do, in the privacy of their home. Also, surely they change names of their clients in the published short stories.

_January 20th._ —At last I feel well enough to write about the events of the previous few days. Today is Tuesday, and Holmes is in Gloucestershire on a case. It's a pity my indisposition prevented me from accompanying him. I can’t wait until he returns and tells me how the case concluded. I hope the outcome was a happy one, for it’s such a beautiful romance between two young officers. But, as Holmes often chides me, I’m telling the story backward, so I’ll pick up where I left off last week.

On Thursday I woke up with a persistent headache, which a good night’s sleep had failed to dispel. Another busy day lay ahead of me, another battle against the raging epidemic of influenza. Like the rest of my general practitioner colleagues, I had countless scheduled house calls to make. Therefore, I ate my breakfast quickly, took aspirin, and was putting on my coat when Holmes descended from the bedroom.

“You look weary,” he said, frowning. “Cooped up all the time in sickrooms without a breath of cleanly air.”

He was warm and homely in his dressing gown and nightshirt. His hair was disheveled, and he was still sleepy. I was loath to leave this early, knowing that I would see him only in the evening if unpredicted circumstances didn’t whisk him away until some ungodly hour.

“Don’t worry, I never catch anything,” I said with a smile.

“Never? I remember at least three occasions,” he replied.

“Over twenty-two years,” I said, pecked him on the prickly cheek, and headed out.

By the middle of the day I felt like a well-trodden rug. By five o’clock I returned home, depleted of all energy, my joints aching terribly. As ever, Holmes had been correct in his observations: the scourge was indeed upon me. I sank down onto the settee, stretched out, and closed my eyes.

“Oh my dear fellow,” Sherlock said quietly, adjusting cushions under my head and touching my forehead. “You’re running a mild fever.”

“It’ll pass,” I croaked, my throat already getting sore.

Sherlock removed my collar and shoes, covered me with a blanket, and brought me hot tea with lemon. I was immensely grateful to him for it. As soon as I finished the cup, I dozed off and was awakened about an hour later by a mouth-watering smell of chicken soup.

“Just the way you like it, Doctor,” Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically and handed me a steaming bowl and a spoon.

God bless our kind landlady. The soup was delicious and warmed me up from the inside. Thanks to it my headache abated a little. Holmes eyed me with concern while I was eating.

“Bustled about town in this vile weather, didn’t you?” he stated rather than asked.

“Couldn’t be helped,” I replied. “How about you? Did you finish deciphering the letter for the Sultan?”

“Indeed I did. The Turkish envoy came for it in the afternoon. And then I whiled away the time with the palimpsest.”

I was only glad that he’d been a fixture all day, unexposed to the elements. The chilling, drizzly wind was still howling outside. My head and limbs were heavy, as if filled with lead. The dull, persisting pain in my joints made wakefulness completely unappealing. I was about to lie back on the cushions, but Holmes fetched me my dressing-gown and slippers.

“You’d better turn in properly,” he said.

He was right, of course. Through sheer force of will I got up, took medicine, and trudged to the bathroom for the evening ablutions, and then upstairs. Strangely enough, once I was in the comfort of our bed, my leg started to throb with vengeance, and I couldn’t find a position to mollify it.

At last, I slipped into a fitful semi-conscious state, having lost touch with reality, but still aware of my ailing body. The room seemed too hot; Abbie must have put too much coal into the grate. I was sweating profusely, but to throw off the blanket was a task beyond my strength. When Holmes ascended, ready to retire, I asked him to get me a fresh nightshirt from the drawer.

“Good Lord, you’re burning up,” he muttered grimly, helping me to change. “John, we need to send for one of your professional brethren.”

“At this hour?” I squinted at the clock—it was a quarter past twelve. “And deprive someone of his well-deserved rest? All GPs in London are done in right now. I can make my own prescriptions. Bring me the medicine chest and some water, will you?”

“If you don’t get better by the morning, I’m calling Dr. Agar,” Holmes said as he obliged.

“Sounds like a threat,” I replied.

“He is used to stubborn patients.”

“Touché. And by the way, you’re not sleeping here tonight.”

“Why’s that?” Holmes asked, mildly affronted.

“Elementary, my boy. It’s contagious.” I sighed.

“I don’t care.”

“ _No_.”

“I’m banished from the marital bed,” he said with feigned hurt.

“Don’t be so melodramatic." I waved him off.

He chose not to argue further, most likely out of pity rather than for the lack of a rejoinder. I must have been really a sorry sight. As hours passed by and I drifted in and out of uneasy sleep, I could hear him pacing in the sitting-room. The influenza continued its invasion into my system, even though I had taken my medication duly.

Somewhere in the middle of the night the wrenching pain in my leg became positively unbearable. My nose was runny and my tonsils swollen—the usual set, in short. I got up to change into a dry nightshirt again, stirred coals in the grate, and flung myself into the armchair, contemplating a shot of morphine. It would put me under, but I was still resisting such a desperate measure.

The house was completely quiet. Then a door opened and closed, and there was walking down the stairs. Had Holmes decided to go out all of a sudden? I was wondering idly what strange idea might get into his head, but no sound from the front door followed. In about ten minutes his steps returned, now ascending the stairs. When Holmes entered, he spotted me in the armchair by the fire at once.

“I thought you might need it,” he said and gave me the cup he was holding.

Warm milk with honey was wonderful for my throat.

“Thank you, my dear. You’re a life-saver,” I said. “Sherlock, not sleeping in our bed does not mean not sleeping at all.”

“I don’t feel like sleeping.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Your leg is bothering you.”

“It’s driving me mad,” I confessed, too exhausted to keep petulant notes from my tone.

Sherlock sat down onto the hearthrug at my feet, pushed up my nightshirt on one side, and started massaging my wounded leg. His strong, deft fingers kneaded the aching muscles, dispelling the spasms and restoring the normal flow of lymph. 

“Any better?” he asked, his touch as masterful on my leg as it would be on his violin or a delicate philosophical instrument.

“Oh yes,” I whispered, my eyes falling shut in bliss.

God, I have always admired his hands and what they can do to my body. Had I not been indisposed, his ministrations would have aroused me in the twinkling of an eye. But I was as limp as a rag, my head rested against the back of the armchair. Feeling boneless and drowsy, I was claimed by deep, sound sleep.

It was already late in the morning when I woke up. I was in bed, carefully tucked in. Sherlock must have carried me. It was painful to swallow, and my nose had become stuffy. I barely had the strength for a journey to toilet and back. The influenza had progressed. It was typical—at first one needs to pass through the crisis, and then recovery goes much faster.

Having heard me shuffling about, Sherlock, fully dressed, came to see me. There was a business-like air about him, which could mean only one thing: the beginning of a new case.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled and was given a most skeptical look. “Well, could be better, to be honest,” I amended. “Lethargic and sticky with dried sweat all over.”

“We can fix the latter. Wait a bit.”

Sherlock took the water pitcher from the wash stand and went downstairs. Soon he returned with the full pitcher and a flannel, poured water into the wash basin, and rummaged in the chest of drawers.

“I’m afraid you ran out of clean nightshirts and will have to wear mine,” he said, sitting down on the edge of our bed.

He started with wiping my face gently. The warm, damp flannel felt amazing as it moved across my clammy forehead, down my cheeks, and along my jaw. Then I pulled my sweat-sodden nightshirt over my head and lay naked while Sherlock tended to me. It reminded me of our visits to the Turkish bath where we always wash each other leisurely in a private room. I said so, and Sherlock smiled, helping me into his nightshirt and covering me with the blanket.

“It’s a good idea,” he replied. “Let’s go when you have recovered enough.”

“Yes, it will cleanse the remains of the illness from the system.” I took Sherlock’s hand and kissed his palm.

“After the conclusion of the case.” He nodded.

“Right, the new case. Tell me about it.”

“I’ve received a letter from a certain Mr. Jacob T. Budd, a solicitor from Essex. No particulars were mentioned aside from a request for an urgent appointment. He shall come at two o’clock.” There was a tap at the door. “Ah, it must be Mrs. Hudson with your breakfast.”

Holmes would’ve stayed on, but I insisted that he didn’t to limit his exposure to the sickroom. I barely finished the meal when Moore Agar arrived to examine me. Oh, Holmes—true to his word, he had called in our old friend.

“So, Watson, this cup hasn’t passed you by?” Agar said with a wry smile, taking my wrist to measure my pulse rate. “I’ve just been to Anstruther. Thankfully, he’s faring quite well and will be able to start again from Monday.”

As ever, Moore Agar was in good humour, although he looked as drawn as all my colleagues. I felt sorry for letting him down like that. But over many years of his practice Agar had always been indefatigable, and nothing could put him off his stride. This quality had been pivotal once, when Holmes had set his personal record of self-neglect. In retirement I might write a story about the memorable vacation in Cornwall which we had taken on Agar’s advice.

Holmes listened attentively to everything Agar had to say about my health. Our friend agreed with my course of action, made some additional prescriptions, and had to be off, awaited by yet another patient.

“Get well soon, old man.” Agar patted me on the shoulder at parting. “You know what to do.”

“You’re older than him, Agar,” Holmes said with a snort.

“Don’t fret, Holmes. A few days’ rest, and he’ll be all right,” Agar replied. “In the meantime, take good care of yourself too so that Watson wasn’t stressed about your well-being more than he usually is.”

Upon Agar’s leaving I slept again until mid-afternoon, and when I came to, I heard Holmes talking to someone downstairs.

“Is it the client?” I asked Mrs. Hudson, who brought me dinner.

“Yes, Doctor,” she said. “A young man of military bearing.”

Having dined, I took another portion of medication. The weather remained dismal, and my shoulder ached dully, so I distracted myself with light reading, full of curiosity and wondering why the young military man had crossed the threshold of our humble abode. Minutes seemed to be ticking away endlessly, but at last the interview was over. The hall door clanked, and soon Holmes ascended from the sitting-room.

“Well?” I prompted him eagerly.

“Brawny, tanned, fresh-faced, and had the nerve to flirt with me, imagine that.” Holmes chuckled.

“Oh, easily. I still can’t resist the temptation myself. What did he do?”

“I identified him as a former soldier, his corps, et cetera, as I usually do, and then asked him for details of his case. He gave me a twinkling look, grinned at me mischievously, and said, ‘I had got into the way of supposing that you knew everything without being told.’”

“Cheeky.”

“Sometimes I wonder if all of the unconventional community comes here when in trouble.”

“They know that they can count on being helped or at least listened to with sympathy and discretion.”

“But we’ve been very careful, you and I, all these years.”

“And here we are, right under everyone’s noses, yet not letting anything slip. So, what is his case?”

“Searching for his lost lover named Geoffrey Thurston, whom he met while they fought in the Boer War. Thurston was injured and invalided. Upon his return home, he disappeared without a word. Budd wrote to Thurston's father and got only a gruff note in reply which said that the chap was on a voyage around the world. Naturally, Budd didn’t believe it. He visited the Thurstons’ estate and received a warm welcome from the mother but a cold shoulder from the father.”

“Hmm, the parents must’ve perceived the drift.”

“Quite, for Budd was very emphatic, describing his devotion to Thurston. He was allowed to stay the night, though.

“Budd was alone in his room when suddenly he saw Thurston in the window. The man was pallid and ghost-like, his face as if bleached. The next moment, however, the apparition vanished into the darkness.”

“Oh, such poetry in your language.” I raised my eyebrows.

“I am entertaining you, after all.” Sherlock smiled. “Budd was sure that he didn’t dream it up. He sprang out of the window—the room was on the ground floor—followed the fellow through the garden, and heard a door being shut in the distance.

“He tried to investigate in the morning. At the end of the garden, there was a detached building. Budd peeped through the window and caught a glimpse of two men. One resembled Thurston while the other might have been a doctor. Budd couldn’t get a closer look, for he was discovered by Thurston’s father and escorted from the premises.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I don’t like to voice my theories ahead of time, but there shouldn’t be any difficulties with this case. An obvious reason for seclusion in secrecy could be madness or a crime Thurston might have committed. On the other hand, considering that they returned from South Africa and that Thurston seemed unnaturally pale to Budd—”

“Leprosy. It’s quite common there, and the man was injured. He could have contracted it by a mischance.”

“Indeed. An unfortunate outcome, no matter which option.”

“Poor lads, to be separated so sadly.” I shook my head, and then suddenly an idea flashed through my mind. “Wait, do you think Thurston had a chance to be diagnosed properly?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Surely the parents did everything to avoid publicity.”

“Or Thurston would have been institutionalised. That’s why Budd’s arrival put them ill at ease.”

“And yet?”

“There were a few known instances of pseudo-leprosy. I encountered it only once—”

“Pseudo-leprosy?” Holmes leaned forward, his gaze keen.

“Ichthyosis, an affliction of non-infectious nature, characterised by extremely dry, scaly skin,” I elaborated. “Acquired ichthyosis may be caused by thyroid or kidney disease, which wouldn’t be surprising, given what he had been through.”

“Will you be able to tell if it’s the real leprosy or not?”

“Yes, but to be on the safe side, I would prefer a second opinion.”

“Sir James Saunders,” Holmes said briskly.

“Since he’s a celebrated expert in dermatology.” I nodded.

“Very well then. I shall visit Sir James to ask for his assistance. The matter is rather delicate for a telephone call.” Sherlock stroked my arm and hurried downstairs.

This glimmer of hope eased my mind a little. Sir James would certainly help if he was not too preoccupied. My shoulder had stopped pestering me while we had been discussing the case, so I had a good nap and then Mrs. Hudson’s delicious chicken soup for supper.

But by the evening my condition worsened: fever spiked again. My throat was like sandpaper in spite of regular gargling, and my leg started to throb again.

Holmes returned content, for Sir James had promised to examine Thurston confidentially whenever needed.

“Will you go to Gloucestershire tomorrow?” I wheezed.

“Not tomorrow,” Holmes replied quietly. “Perhaps not until next week.”

“Why?”

“My better half is ill. There’s no appeal in investigating without him.”

“But what if Geoffrey Thurston really has ichthyosis?”

“What if, on the contrary, leprosy is confirmed? A few days won’t make any difference.”

Sherlock’s tone brooked no argument—he had made up his mind already. We dropped the subject and stayed silent. Massage was out of the question due to my fever running high, yet Sherlock was reluctant to bid me goodnight, his eyes anguished as he looked at me.

“I would gladly change places with you,” he said.

“I wouldn’t,” I murmured.

“Is there any other way to relieve your pain?”

“Morphine.”

“Well, that... that would be for a good cause, wouldn’t it?”

“Will you administer it then? I do want to fall asleep.”

“But there’s none in the house.”

“In my medical bag.”

He did everything quickly and efficiently, and found a vein on my arm with practiced ease. That skill hadn’t gone anywhere.

Submerging into the deep, dark pool, I felt his lips on my burning forehead.

My sleep was so heavy and stupefying that upon waking up I was momentarily disoriented. It was broad daylight. My nose cleared up, my throat was less sore, and neither my shoulder nor my leg disturbed me. However, my body was like a puppet with its strings cut, lax and unwieldy. Also, I could eat a horse. It was safe to assume that the crisis had passed. I reached for the bell sluggishly. In a couple of minutes hurried steps ascended the stairs in a springy fashion which was decidedly not Mrs. Hudson’s. I couldn’t help a smile at the sight of Holmes.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Better, but, God, I’m as weak as a kitten,” I replied.

“The fever broke and hasn’t returned since early morning.” Holmes caressed my forehead. “And you don’t look as dreadful as last night.”

“Well, thank you.” 

There was a polite knock on the half-opened door.

“You rang, sir?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” I said. “Would you bring me something to eat? I’m starving.”

“That’s a good sign,” she said, beaming. “You woke up right on time, Doctor. Lunch is ready.”

“Lunch?” I repeated in astonishment.

“Why, it’s almost noon, sir.”

“Bring it in for two, Mrs. Hudson. I’m tired of eating alone,” Holmes said cheerfully.

“If I may, Mr. Holmes, given the state of the sitting-room, eating there would be problematic,” Mrs. Hudson remarked before she left.

“Ah, I shall miss her so much.” Holmes smiled, his eyes a little sad.

“Indeed,” I said wistfully. “What’s wrong with the sitting-room?”

“I’m sorting out papers; already burned a huge pile. Dear me, too many accumulated over the years.”

“Now that you mention it, I should get down to it too.”

“Rest assured, there’s still enough for you,” Holmes replied.

He helped me to move about on the obligatory morning route, for my head was swimming, my feet unsteady. When we came back, the room had been aired and lunch was on the bed tray table.

“John, I was thinking,” Sherlock said while we were eating. “Maybe we should call off this whole thing, our ‘retirement’, and stay as we are?”

“But Sherlock, we gave our consent to Mycroft. Imagine in what position it will put him!”

“Confound Mycroft, he will manage. We’re not as young anymore, and this work may be far more dangerous.”

“It’s impossible to foresee. A chase after criminals around London might be just as fatal. What we are about to embark on is very important for our country in the light of recent developments.”

Holmes looked at me long and squeezed my hand. We proceeded with discussing lighter matters, but the imminent ‘retirement’ lingered on my mind. When Holmes plunged into the heaps of papers again, I, having nothing better to do, sank into a reverie.

It’s not an easy step for us, a complete turning point in our life, at our age: Holmes is forty-nine, and I’ll be fifty-one this year. These lodgings at Baker Street have been our home ever since we met. It’s hard to believe it was almost twenty-two years ago. This place brought us together. Here our friendship budded and grew. Here we learned the true depth of love. Here we became a family.

Soon we’ll be leaving our sanctum and our dear Mrs. Hudson. Rationally I am resigned to the fact, and yet I still cannot truly reconcile myself with it. For Sherlock it must be the same. I will have to sell my practice, which I had carefully built. The well-known fogs and dangers of the great metropolis will be exchanged for fresh country air and a new kind of dangers. Soon I won’t be able to be candid on these pages as I always have been or I will lose the privilege of writing a diary altogether. My previous diaries, including this one, will be locked away in the safest vaults until... until who knows when. But it’s our duty to our country, for the future is uncertain. Great wheels have been set in motion, and the world is already very different from what it was in our youth.

My thoughts running along these lines gave me a massive headache, so I quit ruminating and tried to read instead but dozed off. It proved surprisingly invigorating: after that I was strong enough to go downstairs and join Holmes in scouring our Augean stables. Lounging in the armchair, I looked through folders which he would hand me.

Bright flames in the grate devoured notes, newspaper clippings, letters, and telegrams. Records of many past cases were eliminated save those in our memories. Holmes chattered about our cottage in Sussex, what was yet to be done there, and how he would get the apiary right. He didn’t say a word regarding the current case of the two soldiers, as if it had passed from his mind. Perhaps it had—his power of mental detachment never ceased to amaze me. Finally, our sitting-room was more or less presentable. Having postponed the rest of the documents for another time, we sat down for supper.

The weather outside didn’t improve. The wind was blowing as fiercely, and the icy rain was drumming on the windowpane, but my leg hurt considerably less than the day before. Feeling fatigued, I returned to bed, and Sherlock massaged my leg again to make sure it caused me no trouble at all. His hands worked miracles, sliding up and down slowly, gently, with endless care. The pain was gone, replaced by warmth that spread from my thigh into my groin and lower belly. I wasn’t even aware of it, lost in sensations.

“You really are on the mend,” Sherlock murmured with satisfaction.

I followed his gaze: my nightshirt—or rather _his_ nightshirt I was still wearing—tented up between my legs. Sherlock palmed the bulge, his eyes bright, colour tinging his cheeks as he licked his lips. Then he seized the hem of the nightshirt and pulled it up abruptly as if unwrapping a present. I gasped, all ready for him. He pleasured me with his mouth, savouring, humming with delight and glancing up impishly, full of me. I wouldn’t last long, and he didn’t intend that. In a few minutes he brought me to a glorious release, tense and vibrant with desire himself. Blissed out, spent, I could barely stay awake.

“Come here, let me,” I whispered, grasping his shoulder.

“I’ll take care of it. Sleep.” Sherlock kissed my knee, wiped me clean with a damp flannel, pulled down the nightshirt, and covered me with the blanket.

“When I get well...”

He smiled, extinguished the light, and quietly went out. Needless to say, my sleep was splendid.

This morning I felt mostly like myself, apart from residual symptoms. At last I shaved off my itching stubble and made myself decent before donning my dressing-gown and descending to the sitting-room. Sherlock was finishing his breakfast. I was glad to see that there were no dark circles under his eyes. His mind at rest, he must have had a good night’s sleep too. We beamed at each other as I took my place beside him and rang the bell. Everything resumed its normal course again: we thumbed through the morning papers, lamented their sterility, and smoked our pipes, which I especially enjoyed after the necessary abstinence.

“Are you game for another day among our dusty archives?” Sherlock asked, contemplating boxes and boxes cluttering every corner of our sitting-room.

“Quite,” I replied. “But you, my dear, must go to Gloucestershire.”

“In a couple of days we’ll go together.”

“Thurston needs a diagnosis. Every day of delay must be agonising for Budd. Sir James will be there, so it won’t matter whether I shall be present or not.”

“Your presence always matters.”

“It has to be done as soon as possible, Sherlock. Please go today. I’m fairly well and won’t relapse, that’s for sure.”

“Oh Watson,” Sherlock muttered in frustration, but I knew that I had managed to persuade him.

Having telephoned Sir James and then Mr. Budd, he reluctantly set out at ten o’clock. After seeing him off, I took a bath with relish and asked Mrs. Hudson to change the sheets upstairs. At this stage of convalescence I won’t pass my illness to Holmes, so his exile will be over tonight.

I read his notes on the current case and turned everything over in my mind again. Yes, the chance is slight—our worst fears could be confirmed, but I hope with all my heart that Thurston will not be condemned for a lifelong isolation and a torturous demise. May that young man be spared such a terrible fate. May the lovers be reunited.

 

 _Follow-up._ —Holmes returned at tea time, and by his face I saw that the journey was a success. His eyes were shining with quiet joy and contentment as he took my hands into his.

“There you are. Your complexion is so much better,” he said.

“Yes, I do feel almost as good as new,” I replied, smiling.

“May I have a kiss then?”

I embraced him, and we kissed chastely.

“Not delaying it was worth it, right?” I whispered against his lips.

“It was.” Sherlock nodded.

“I’m all attention.”

We seated ourselves at the table, and I poured him some tea.

“It was rather dramatic,” Holmes said, reaching for a sandwich. “Old Thurston made a spectacle of himself. Bristling beard, red face contorted with fury, he nearly threw us out. Thankfully, Sir James stayed behind in the carriage; getting him into such a scene would have been a disgrace. Budd never flinched, though. The situation would have escalated to violence, and I had to interfere quickly. A single word on a sheet of paper was enough to quell the father’s anger and assure him of our discretion. With his leave we visited the son.

“Geoffrey Thurston turned out to be a handsome young man save for the discolouration of his skin. We found him depressed and forlorn, poor thing. The way he and Budd looked at each other, good Lord! They couldn’t be more obvious. Thurston told us that after being wounded he had stayed at night in the Leper’s Hospital. It had been by accident, and he hadn’t realised it until morning.

“Budd wasn’t going to abandon him, come what may. However, Sir James examined him, and, fortunately, it was just as you had said.”

“Ichthyosis,” I cried triumphantly.

“Yes.” Holmes grinned. “Sir James pronounced his verdict, and lo, universal happiness entered the house of sorrow—the mother fainted, the old servants in tears, and the lovers’ faces glowing. The two became inseparable again, much to the father’s consternation.”

“Ah, it’s so wonderful. I do wish I had witnessed it all.”

“And then wrote a gaudily romantic story?”

“Maybe. I should like to have every detail from the beginning now that I’m not lying in bed with fever.”

“Of course, my dear.”

Holmes told me everything vividly, with captivating imagery he has a talent for. I listened to him, my breath bated, as twilight was gradually descending upon the street outside our bow-window. The weather had cleared, and the evening was serene and cheerful in the last rays of the setting sun.

“It has to be written down at once,” I said when Holmes had finished.

“Later, my boy.” Holmes put his hand over mine, for I was about to rise and take my notebook. “Rest thoroughly. I don’t want you to overexert yourself. You have just recovered.”

“All right, there will be time for that,” I agreed. “By the way, Agar visited while you were out. Said that the epidemic was on the wane.”

“It’s good to hear,” Sherlock replied, lighting his pipe and reclining in his chair. “You won’t be overworked.”

 _Carpe diem_ , as the old adage goes. There is still time to enjoy the life we have got accustomed to over the years at Baker Street. We are looking into the future with hope, but we shall especially cherish the following few months before the new beginning which awaits us. Perhaps some bizarre and intriguing cases might yet come our way until then.

**Author's Note:**

> Another headcanon: In retirement Holmes wrote _The Blanched Soldier_ as a gift to Watson, and at first it wasn’t intended to be published. But when sometime later they decided to, they had to edit it heavily because reasons.


End file.
